


everybody needs a place (will you always be mine?)

by queerofthedagger



Series: Merlin Stories [4]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved!Arthur Pendragon, caring!merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:14:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25990417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerofthedagger/pseuds/queerofthedagger
Summary: Merlin exhales a soft laugh, hoarse and relieved all at once. He shakes his head before brushing his lips over Arthur’s once more, then trails them over his cheek to his ear. “Then let me take care of you?” he asks again, and another shiver travels down his back.“Please,” he presses out, his voice cracking over the word and closer to a plea than he has ever heard it. He doesn’t have it within himself to care, has never been more certain in the conviction that Merlin will take all the brittle pieces of him and still find worth in them.The crown weighs heavy on his head, well-known self-doubts taking their toll. Arthur would never expect Merlin to shoulder some of the burden, but then, Merlin has never been one for doing what's expected of him.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Merlin Stories [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1728040
Comments: 59
Kudos: 528





	everybody needs a place (will you always be mine?)

**Author's Note:**

> To be honest, this is at least 80% self-indulgent. I'm weak for the boys being soft, and this is basically soft from start to finish. There's some smut in here, but it's not really graphic and also not the main focus in any way. 
> 
> If you want to set the mood - I listened to [Taylor Swift - the lakes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tOHcAc3r2kw) on repeat while writing this. 
> 
> I hope you like it!
> 
> Please do not repost my work anywhere or list it on goodreads (or similar sites).

Arthur hears the silent click of the door but doesn't raise his head from where it's resting on the table. The soft fall of footsteps is enough for him to know that Merlin's approaching, and he feels more than that he sees when he comes to a halt next to Arthur, leaning against the table.

"You're doing well, Arthur," Merlin says, his hand coming to rest on Arthur's shoulder, but he can't bring himself to answer with more than a grunt.

He'd discarded the crown as soon as he reached his chambers, but it's like the weight is still there, pressing down on him with an endless stream of vivid memories of his father's every frown of disappointment, every harsh word of judgement that found him lacking.

Whoever came up with the idea of choosing a King by succession must've been mad; there's no way that Arthur is up to the task. There's also no way that he can voice them, these endless doubts and fears that have kept him awake more often than he cares to count.

Merlin somehow, as always, seems to understand anyway, the warmth of his palm soaking through the thin material of his tunic, reassuring and calming in a way it shouldn't be. Arthur finds himself relaxing, if only a little.

"What if –" he starts, only to break off again, clenching his jaw to keep the traitorous words locked behind his teeth.

There's a soft hum, and Merlin shifts closer, his leg pressing against Arthur's. The hand moves, fingers trailing carefully over his neck and into the nape of his hair, carding through the soft strands and causing a shiver to run down his spine.

A distant part of his mind is warning him to put a stop to this; that they're dangerously close to crossing a line that they've toed so many times. It has become more blurred in recent months, ever since Merlin confessed the magic and the lies, and Arthur subsequently forgave him.

He doesn't have the strength left necessary to enforce just another thing he doesn't truly want in the first place, no matter how much effort he usually puts into not admitting it.

For all that Merlin touches him more than nearly anyone else does, both as his servant and as someone who doesn’t care about the rules of propriety, the gentle pressure against Arthur’s neck is unfamiliar, new in a way that raises his awareness of Merlin’s presence.

Still, the tension that's been coiled tight in his shoulders is slowly bleeding away, leaving a faint hum of contentment and slowly uncurling anticipation radiating from the base of his spine.

Merlin's silent, but Arthur can feel the weight of his eyes on him, somehow heavy and gentle all at once. Tilting his head, he glances up at him, the angle awkward. A small, soft smile curls the corner of Merlin's mouth, the one that Arthur wants to believe is only for him and that makes Merlin's eyes appear so warm and fond that his breath catches in his throat.

Their gaze holds, and he can see Merlin swallow before he draws his hand back. Before Arthur can decide if he should protest or be grateful, Merlin takes a step behind the chair and nudges his shoulders, tugging at his tunic until he leans back in the chair.

"Merlin, what –"

"Shh, don't talk."

Arthur's lips twitch on their own accord, and he doesn't resist when Merlin pulls him back until his head is resting against his chest. "I'm the King, you can't tell me what to do," he says anyway, glad that his voice doesn't sound as hoarse as he feared it must be.

Instead of a smart retort, Merlin hums, his fingers coming up to massage Arthur's temples. "Just pretend for a moment that you're not, then. Pretend that you're just someone who's been too stressed lately, who can allow himself a moment to think of nothing."

He has to close his eyes against the sting, has to swallow against the lump in his throat. His heart is hammering so frantically that he's sure Merlin must hear it, loud enough to drown out the still lingering voice that’s urging him to get up, to get away, to not give in to the longing that’s seizing his chest.

Merlin’s fingers leave his temples, trailing over his brows, down his nose and over his cheekbones, his jawline, and back into his hair, repeating the motion in a slow, mindless pattern. He would’ve expected it to feel weird, ridiculous even, like something a child does with a toy.

But Merlin’s warmth is steady in his back, and the longing only grows out of his chest, dripping into his stomach and seeping up his throat until it burns behind his teeth and heats his cheeks, a slow buzzing that’s overtaking his senses until it’s exposed for all to see. He wonders if this is how magic feels, reverence trickling through his skin and leaving him more breathless than any rush of power in a fight ever did.

It's nearly too much. He has to keep himself from shying away from it, the attention and care and tenderness of the simple touch, threatening to unravel all the things he keeps so carefully buried in the dark recesses of his mind, never to be examined too closely.

Instead of pulling away, instead of dispelling the growing tension in the room with a joke and a flippant word, he leans into the touch. Leans into the touch and lets his breathing align slowly with Merlin’s until he nearly believes that their hearts are beating the same rhythm.

It’s a strangely comforting idea, and easier to focus on than the thought of how much he yearned for contact like this without even being aware of it. Kings are not supposed to offer anyone their unguarded backs, and yet he trusts Merlin more than he does himself.

“Do you ever think about leaving? About a life without all this weight on your shoulders where you can just be – happy?” The words slip out unbidden, escaping from where he keeps them locked up behind his ribs together with all the other secrets he tries to hide even from himself.

He should’ve known that it would be Merlin who coaxes them out, and still he finds himself freezing when Merlin’s hands still in their ministration, rough fingertips lingering on his cheeks.

Then the hands move again, slow and assured, carding through his hair once more before coming to rest on his shoulders, and the anxiety melts away just as the tension did.

Still, he keeps his eyes closed when Merlin steps away from him, already feeling the loss of the touch fiercely and swallowing the bitterness it leaves in the back of his throat, sharp in a way it shouldn’t be.

“Arthur. Look at me,” Merlin says, his voice low and firm, rendering Arthur unable to refuse even if he wanted to. His eyes find Merlin’s immediately, now standing next to him, mustering him with an intensity that leaves him slightly breathless.

“Come on, get up,” Merlin says with a tug on his sleeve, and so he does, holding still as Merlin moves in front of him, hands coming up to cup his jaw. “In the beginning, I did. Sometimes,” Merlin goes on, his voice barely more than a whisper. “But I could never leave you, Arthur, and I’d do all of it again in a heartbeat. And to be honest, I don’t think you want to leave either.”

Before the ache in his chest can grow, Merlin leans forward and brushes his lips against his brow, lingering for a moment before pulling back only far enough to rest their foreheads together. “But if you do, I’ll follow you. Wherever you want to run, I’ll follow you, as long as it makes you happy.”

A dry sob tears itself out of Arthur’s throat and he shudders. He goes without resistance when Merlin tugs him close, burying his face in the crook of his neck where he can breathe him in, hay and herbs and lavender, impossibly smelling like a sanctuary. His hands clench in the back of Merlin’s tunic and the last amount of fight drains out of him, seeping away with every stroke of Merlin’s hands over his back.

“Let me take care of you?” Merlin murmurs into his hair, and there’s an undercurrent of uncertainty in it that’s the first sign tonight that he’s not as sure as Arthur thought he was.

It’s such a strange notion, that Merlin couldn’t know how much Arthur needs this, needs _him_ , that it silences the cacophony of doubtful voices in his own head. Pulling back just enough that he’s able to meet Merlin’s eyes, he searches his expression briefly before closing the remaining distance between them.

The first brush of lips is tentative, uncertain, and Arthur still expects to be pushed away with a firm hand and an apologetic but ultimately damning denial; half expects to find himself alone in his chambers within seconds, again, left to pick up the pieces of something he hadn’t managed to destroy yet by a mere miracle.

But Merlin makes a low, whining noise in the back of his throat that races down Arthur’s spine and presses closer. He can feel Merlin’s heart beating against his own chest, can feel Merlin’s teeth scrape over his bottom lip, can feel the same longing that has been setting his skin alight pouring off of Merlin in waves.

His mind goes curiously silent, only a vague sense of ‘ _right_ ,’ and ‘ _home_ ,’ and ‘ _this, in a thousand lifetimes, this,_ ’ reverberating through him as the realization sinks into his bones, certain and constant like the familiarity of his sword in his hand.

He runs his hands up Merlin’s sides until he finds the warm skin of his neck, and fumbles with the neckerchief until it becomes loose enough to slip off; he wants to find more of this, of those little blind spots he had somehow missed.

“Arthur,” Merlin breathes into the minuscule space between them, hot breath ghosting over his lips, and his own fingers tighten in the nape of Merlin’s hair in response. His heart is still pounding against his ribs but it’s more like flying and falling now, like Merlin’s hands are pressing a kind of strength into his skin that he didn’t know was possible, and he absently wonders how he ever managed without it, without _this_.

The tugging in his hair becomes slightly more insistent, and he reluctantly moves back to allow Merlin room to speak, though he’s lightheaded, dizzy, wrapped up in a sensation he’s completely unfamiliar with and still trusts instinctively.

“ _Arthur_ ,” Merlin repeats, and he finally blinks his eyes open, slowly. The faint crease between Merlin’s brows brings him back to himself faster than a bucket of cold water would have, but when he tries to move away, Merlin’s grip on him tightens. “I just – are you sure?” Merlin says, a tilt to his voice that Arthur recognizes all too well. “You were – in a bad mood when I arrived, and I don’t mean to pressure you. Or for you to do this because it’s a welcome distraction.”

It takes him a few moments to process the words, his skin still prickling in all the places Merlin had touched, but when he does, he smiles, that fondly exasperated one that only Merlin seems to be able to draw out of him. “You’re an idiot,” he murmurs, nudging their noses together.

Merlin exhales a soft laugh, hoarse and relieved all at once. He shakes his head before brushing his lips over Arthur’s once more, then trails them over his cheek to his ear. “Then let me take care of you?” he asks again, and another shiver travels down his back.

“Please,” he presses out, his voice cracking over the word and closer to a plea than he has ever heard it. He doesn’t have it within himself to care, has never been more certain in the conviction that Merlin will take all the brittle pieces of him and still find worth in them.

The only sounds in the room are the cracking of the low-burning fire and their breathing, and he watches as Merlin strips himself of his tunic; watches as long, assured fingers move to undo the laces of Arthur’s clothes in long-since ingrained movements, stripping them both piece by piece.

The air is cool against his skin, contrasting the trail of warmth Merlin’s hands leave in their wake where they travel over his shoulders and his chest, down over his stomach and up his back.

Only when Merlin moves in to kiss him again does he allow himself to touch, shaking hands tracing the ridges of his spine, the lines of too many scars, stories edged into pale skin that betray the strength resting underneath his palms.

“They’re not your fault,” Merlin murmurs as if he can read Arthur’s mind. And maybe he can, Arthur thinks, finding that he doesn’t mind it either way.

He goes willingly when Merlin moves them into the direction of the bed, exhaling a shallow breath as Merlin stretches out over him, his skin close to burning in all the places they’re pressed together. 

Merlin’s lips leave his, trailing over his throat and his collarbone, and Arthur gives himself over to the touch, gives himself over to the familiar hands and the well-known voice. Lets Merlin peel away layer after layer, stripping him bare to his bones until he can’t tell anymore where he ends and Merlin begins.

There are no doubts left as Merlin prints promises into his skin, no fears to be found when the heat of Merlin’s mouth closes around him, when he feels the weight of Merlin’s fingers inside him; he can only twist his hands into Merlin’s hair and the sheets, can only trust that Merlin will put him back together after he shattered apart under the movement of his body above him.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” Merlin whispers into his ear as he comes, and Arthur’s back arches, tremors wrecking his body as he follows. He’s not sure that he’s not crying, or laughing, the affection and love mounting in his chest making him certain that he must be bursting at the seams.

Merlin’s still above him, panting breaths into Arthur’s shoulder until he moves back carefully. Before the protest in his throat can form into words, Merlin curls up next to him and pulls him close until they’re tangled together again, the slowing beat of Merlin’s heart clear in his ear as they lie there in silence.

He’s drawing lazy circles into the skin over Merlin’s ribs, and there’s a vague sense of wonder that he still doesn’t feel the need to pull away, to build back up the walls he’s been maintaining around himself for as long as he can remember.

The only thing present in his mind is a promise that still needs to be spoken. “I would as well, you know that, don’t you?” he murmurs into the hollow of Merlin’s throat before lifting his head to meet Merlin’s eyes.

There’s the small smile again, and he traces its outlines with his thumb, committing it to memory in case he’ll ever have need of it.

“Would what?” Merlin asks, smoothing a few strands of hair out of Arthur’s eyes before tugging at them lightly.

“Leave with you if you asked me to,” he says, and it’s easy, the words leaving him as freely as his breath does. “Follow you wherever you want to go, as long as it makes you happy.”

Merlin’s eyes are bright as he looks at him, shining with so much love that Arthur wonders how he could’ve ever doubted it in the first place.

“Well, then it’s a good thing that I’m perfectly happy right where I am, isn’t it?” Merlin murmurs, brushing his lips against Arthur’s temple, and he thinks that maybe that’s the crux of it all; that he’d give up his kingdom in the blink of an eye if Merlin so much as asked, and that Merlin never would.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it, I'd love to hear what you think. You can also find me on [tumblr](https://queerofthedagger.tumblr.com/) <3
> 
> Also, if you're in the mood for more soft Merthur, go check out Atlanta_Black's [forgiveness tastes sweeter from your lips.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25929874) It's heartbreakingly beautiful. <33


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